Grasping
by Chloe Veverka
Summary: Dealing with death is difficult enough without the taunting beauty of a spring day. Harry confronts his emotions with Hermione's support. Written for the Just Description Challenge. OoTP spoiler. One shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Harry Potter, _that is all J.K. Rowling.

Grasping

He found her down by the lake, alone. Her attention was drawn to the water's calming beauty as she sat on a burgundy and gold blanket, a stack of books piled next to her side. A gentle spring breeze disturbed her thick ringlets as her stiff body posture suggested the tension that coursed through her muscles. She was on alert for something.

The minute he saw her, he felt both a great sense of relief and a surmounting feeling of pain shoot through him. Hands shoved into his sweatshirt, he slowly trudged forward. Drawing closer, he could see that she still wore her school uniform, immaculate as ever, although she had a distant appearance etched in the contemplative body language.

He stopped once he reached her side, staring out across the lake with her. The wind caressed his scalp and, for a brief moment, he closed his eyes and imagined that the wind was the gentle touch of his comforting hand. The whisper through the leaves became his comforting voice. The rustle of the grass became the comforting sound of his sometimes furry body roaming nearby.

She refrained for as long as she could but, eventually, she couldn't help looking up at him as his eyes opened. She watched him stare into the transparent, dismal sadness that his gaze imposed over the natural beauty before them. Scanning his taut face, the bags under his eyes, the firm line of his lips, and the removed stance, she could see his hurt. She could feel it radiate from his scarred and bruised skin. He was in so much pain. And there was little she could do.

After a moment's hesitance, he literally collapsed onto the ground next to her, refusing to look her straight on. Seeing his resolve crumbling, she turned away to give him privacy. But her hand slowly crept across the soft blanket, a timid dance, until it found his hand. Her smaller fingers carefully located the crevices between his dead fingers, and they wove together until his revived digits embraced hers. A gentle squeeze, a gentle and steady squeeze like a resuscitating heart beat. They stared across the lake, watching the sun's light touch upon the greenery. The trees, plants, and grass danced as the wind brought the inanimate to life. But some things were far removed from such reinvigoration.

Some things were just as good as six feet removed, forever.

His head slowly, slowly, slowly leaned until it rested on her shoulder. His fingers grasped hers tighter. He sniffled. Ever so softly, her free hand found its way to his hair, soothingly caressing his head. She whispered soft sounds into his ear, coaxing him to let go.

Finally, the taut face wrinkled, the firm line twitched, and the removed posture broke as his body wracked with silent sobs. And she held on tightly, saying nothing. She kissed his forehead, careful to avoid the scar, and felt her own tears coming swiftly. He cried harder, squeezing her hand, burying his face into her shoulder, hiding from the beauty of the scenery. It was too much. It was too normal. It was as though nothing horrible had happened; as though nothing had changed and everything was beautiful with the world.

But it wasn't okay. It was far from okay. Why did the world give such an illusion?

He cried. He cried and cried and cried and cried. Stabbing pain in his heart, through his back, through his front. Healing ribs, aching limbs, headache, broken bones, broken heart, just broken. Everything seared hot fire and numbing coldness, back and forth; like the flutter of the nonexistent wind on that curtain's surface, a deathly caress. The never-ending slash of heat, of hot flashes, of painful memories across the jagged edges on his forehead. Green. Light. Death. Surrender. Gone.

For years, he had been subjected to insurmountable trauma, horrific experiences, and rarely did he allow himself the comfort of another's presence. He couldn't hold back any longer. He was afraid he'd lose himself if he did.

And she was afraid for him. Afraid that all of this pain, all of this fear and violence and paranoia would consume him and destroy him. So she held him. She emptied herself of her own doubts and fears and filled herself with concern, love, and the strength to look him in the eyes and see his breaking heart. His tortured spirit.

She did her best to give him her strength to help glue the hope back together; the hope that everything would eventually be okay again. The illusion can't last, but perhaps, one day, things would be normal again. Until then, she held him, stroked his hair, and cried with him so he wouldn't be alone. She merged her pain with his. And although his was far greater than her own, she refused to let him feel alone.

In the course of his break, his body lost its resolve, his head finding her lap. Face resting on her thigh, he curled into a ball and gripped her body, burying himself into her.

Crashing. Crashing.

She continued to caress his hair. She refused to let go of his hand. Squeezing harder, she refused to let go.

The wind caressed the earth, the sun warmed their faces, and the world went on.

Her hand caressed his hair. Her love warmed his pain. The world went on.

And so would he.

They stayed that way, two shuttering forms against the serene backdrop, until the sun began to set. Warming tones of blood orange and fire darted across the sky, turning into dusty indigo and charcoal blue.

When the reservoirs were dried up, the broken dams finally trickled off until there were no more tears. Drained, he slowly rose from her lap, wiping his face on his sleeve. She sniffled while watching him, breaking into a soft giggle when his dry sleeve came to gently wipe away glistening tracks from her cheeks. He switched hands in that process, always holding her hand, never letting go. Looking into her bloodshot eyes, he knew his were mirrored. She never broke his contact, reminding him. Reminding him.

Rising to his feet, he helped pull her up to her own. She dusted off imaginary dirt from her skirt, then took the time to pack up her books and blanket as he dug his hands into his sweatshirt again. Once finished, she moved to throw the bag over her shoulder, but he grabbed it before she could complete the action. Putting it over his shoulder, he offered his hand, which she gladly took and squeezed gently.

The two then trudged away from the lake; away from what was a beautiful, gentle scene, which had then become a darkness of elusive shapes and movement. The illusion turned truthful—the unknown and scary behind the beauty.

Hand-in-hand, they made their way through the darkness.

**Written for the "Just Dialogue/Description" Challenge.**

Grasp: to clutch; to understand

I like Harry and Hermione friendship moments, and this is my take on what it might have been like for Harry to deal with Sirius's death, both physically and emotionally.

**PLEASE REVIEW!!** Thanks!


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